


How You Dance The Line

by Bingothefarmersdog



Series: Widomauk [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Anal Sex, Communication, Corsetry, Crossdressing Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom Caleb, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Gift Giving, Historical Dress, M/M, Non-Binary Mollymauk, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Virginity Roleplay, sub Mollymauk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 01:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bingothefarmersdog/pseuds/Bingothefarmersdog
Summary: “Do you want...one of those?” Caleb asks Mollymauk cautiously, pointing in Jester’s direction. “What Jester is...getting...”The Mighty Nein need costumes for the Carnival festival, and Caleb notices that Molly might want something...a little bit unusual...





	How You Dance The Line

**Author's Note:**

> I made up an Exandrian Carnival holiday. But in my defense, I wanted Molly to dress up in pretty things. So you’re welcome. 
> 
> This is an unholy number of words to write in one smut fic. It’s obscene. I should split this up into chapters at least. But I don’t feel like it, so we’re not gonna do that.
> 
> Trigger Warning: for Transphobic behavior, and forcing Gender Binary, in the first scene.

Caleb is clumsy with people—it’s been many years since he could speak lies with a perfect smile, and not feel his stomach turn—but he is not clueless.

He is blunt, yes. Overcorrect? Yes. Shy of confrontation? Overwhelmingly yes. But not stupid. While he may be awkward, and halting, and hyper-vigilant over his speech, that doesn’t mean he can’t understand what the words are for. It’s just...not as simple to make them do what he wants.

Sometimes it’s even intentional. _Speak too quickly, encourage your stutter, emphasize your accent. Do anything but be charming, Caleb Widogast._ Because charisma has been hammered into him, drilled into him. Like sand that has been rubbed over him, until his bones are gritty with it. It’s _stand up straight, Bren Ermendrud_. And, _look me in the eye, Bren Ermendrud_. And, _stop choking on your tongue, Bren Ermendrud_.

Charisma is just a mask, verbose articulation just a tool, that rests cold in his hands like a chisel. A knife to cut his way through to what he wants. Until he catches himself smiling a certain way, feels his shoulders get just a little too firm, tastes egotism and hubris about to fall from the tip of his tongue. And he has to pull himself apart again, drag himself down into the mud; just to prove the seams are frayed, just to make sure the dirt sticks. That he isn’t the porcelain perfection, and the porcelain perfection isn’t him.

Another thing nobody else seems to realize, is how specific his words are, how situational his training is. Something meant for a distance of arms length, sweet lies that smell like truth, deadly intention behind personable invitation. Not for feelings. Not for family, and freedom, and honest self expression. It was never _share your heart, Bren Ermendrud_. Or, _face the truth, Bren Ermendrud_. Or, _admit you love them, Bren Ermendrud._

That honesty feels so alien from the mask, and he has no instructions to follow, no pantomime to mimic. He doesn’t know how to say _I’m worried that somehow I’ll hurt someone, Beauregard._ Or _I don’t want you to think I take you for granted, Nott._ Or _I’m so sorry that I can’t find the resolute self government to keep you at a safe distance, Mollymauk_.

All these feelings, no matter how straightforward they sound in his head, no matter how many times he coaches himself through the exact words to say them...refuse to meet the air with any of the clearcut articulations that he holds at the back of his tongue. Worse, even when he gets close, grasps at straws and weaves it into something like a complete tapestry, everyone refuses to accept the picture. When he finally arranges the words into something he’s satisfied with, relieved to hear himself speaking clearly...

No one listens.

They argue, and scoff, as if his words aren’t mere common sense. And he, so busy with constructing an opening statement that concisely contains everything he means, finds himself completely unprepared to continue in maze-like attempts to repeat himself, after the first carefully tailored argument fails. With stubborn persistency the Nein insist on shattering his neatly constructed discussion. Nobody obeys the _rules_. Instead he finds himself faced with a clumsy jumble of words in a heap; in-which everyone speaks faster than he can, nobody takes time to properly analyze their arguments, and he’s constantly interrupted, until he’s completely baffled.

It’s maddening.

The Nein laugh at him, and call him awkward. They act surprised when he talks—and talks well—to complete strangers. When they need charm, they forget that he can be well-spoken if he needs to be. They smile at his stammer and think it’s endearing, as if it doesn’t make him want to rip his own tongue out from frustration. The Mighty Nein call him clueless.

He’s not clueless...just constrained...

So he sees Mollymauk drifting closer to the brightly colored silks. Notices the tiefling looking less and less attentively at the sensible felts in various shades of black and brown, feels how falsely tokenary Molly’s proximity is at Caleb’s own side. He sees it quite clearly.

Because he isn’t clueless. Just uncommunicative.

Molly’s mind is somewhere else, his eyes wandering in the same direction where his thoughts lie. While Caleb browses through the bolts of fabric in subdued tones, avoiding even the lighter navy blues and dark crimsons that smack of the least gaudiness, Mollymauk’s mind is somewhere else. Clearly across the shop, on the other side of the fabric filled shelves, where Jester is.

The blue teifling is gushing over silks, and lace, and corsets, and frills, and bows, and draping, and figure flattering darts, and a hundred other things that Caleb has never heard of and doesn’t even pretend to understand. She’s sweeping a starry eyed Nott away in a sea of the latest fashions, that Caleb has put in a box labeled Feminine Mysteries, with the understanding that these things will always be darkness to him. But Mollymauk, drifting supportively at Caleb’s side so that he can pretend to be delighted by every fabric sample the wizard reluctantly shows him, has obviously caught a strain of music in which the notes make some sense to him.

Hesitantly Caleb holds up yet another fold of fabric, in the nearly same color as the last, waiting for Molly’s judgment. The tiefling comes back to their side of the shop with an abstracted look, as if he’s coming down from a cloud. It makes Caleb frown, because Molly should look happy, and he can’t quite understand why the teifling doesn’t. Until Caleb does. Molly’s forgetting to please himself, in all this effort to coach Caleb—with as little discomfort as possible—through the ordeal of buying himself new clothes he couldn’t care less about.

It becomes even clearer when Caleb goes back to rubbing every bit of fabric through his fingers. Molly’s head turns away, and he’s obviously only half present again. Still spliced between Caleb’s search for a fabric texture he can stand, and Molly’s own interest in Jester’s browsing on the other side of the shop. Clearly he hasn’t realized Caleb is catching on, or he’d be more careful to not get distracted.

Furtively Caleb grabs at the tiefling’s coat cuff, just snagging the edge of the gaudy garment with his fingertips. Mollymauk starts, and turns in Caleb’s direction as if expecting to see the wizard showing him another bland textile choice. Seeing that it isn’t the case, and Caleb is still frowning at the bolts of cloth before him, Mollymauk drifts slightly closer until his shoulder just bumps Caleb’s and their knuckles brush.

“Do you...” Caleb hazards and then falters in the attempt, chewing apprehensively on his tongue. When his words finally come they’re in a whisper, half as if he’s speaking a crime in a sacred place.

“Do you want...one of those?” He asks cautiously, barely pointing in Jester’s direction. “What Jester is...getting...”

Molly doesn’t answer, and that is answer enough. Instead he stiffens just a little, centers his weight just a little, hardens his shoulders...does a thousand tiny things that Caleb has come to recognize as Molly struggling. The teifling doesn’t draw away, but his shoulder doesn’t brush so companionably against Caleb’s either.

Caleb tries to smile reassuringly, tries to articulate, tries to make the tangled feeling of _I want you to be happy _translate into even more tangled words. But it ends up messy, and incomplete, as he whispers, “we can afford it...if you...want...” And it makes him blush with shame at his own insensitivity, bringing up money. As if finances could hold even a remote weight against Molly’s happiness.

The teifling makes a show of demurring, but Caleb can see even in Molly’s further stiffening posture, resolutely anchored eyes, wooden tone of voice, that the tiefling is tempted by the extended offer.

“What about you?” Mollymauk protests softly. “We’re here for you, not me.”

“I have been looking at the exact same colors for the last ten minutes and forty seven seconds,” Caleb says with the slightest hint of dry sarcasm. “I am sure I will be able to choose a shade of black on my own.”

Mollymauk glances at Caleb, half as if he’s looking for permission, and half as if he doesn’t trust the wizard to be left on his own. “I really don’t need it. All I’ll need is a carnival mask with this crazy getup of mine, and I’ll look right at home...”

“Nein. That is. You...You...“ Caleb stammers, because the words never come right, the feelings never come right.

And for as easily as he’s lied through his teeth, his eyes unwaveringly locked with a strangers the entire time he does it, he can’t quite meet Molly’s eyes over his confession of the truth. “You deserve something pretty...”

_I want you to be happy_, he thinks more clearly.

Instead it’s a tug on Mollymauk’s arm, a gentle pull over to where Jester is currently holding court. The blue tiefling, in partnership with the tight lipped seamstress who runs the shop, is currently in the middle of gleefully torturing Beauregard. Standing on a stool, the sour faced monk looks ready to kick the seamstress in the teeth, festooned with what looks like literal acres of pink fabric cleverly pinned. Jester is standing back to admire the effect, recommending small amendments here and there, as the gray haired needlewoman is busy with the last fine details.

“E-excuse me...” Caleb says cautiously, hovering at the edge of this circle. “I have, a request.”

“Yes?” The woman snips around a mouthful of pins that she is rapidly using up.

“My...my friend here...” he awkwardly indicates Molly at his elbow. “Would like a dress as well.”

“Ohmygosh!” Jester squeals in a way that means she is completely invested in the idea already, and her eyes have gained a glint to them that Caleb might call predatory.

But something is sour in the air, as the narrow shouldered woman glances up to examine Mollymauk, and Jester says no more through the chill. Instead the woman drags her eyes slowly, and meaningfully, over every inch of Molly’s colorful frame, in a way that Caleb doesn’t like. He might even go so far as to assert that he hates it. When the woman has finished her judgments, her eyes return back to Caleb’s face.

“What was your request?” She says with wooden dullness, as if she hadn’t heard him perfectly.

“A...lady’s masquerade gown...for my friend?” Caleb manages less firmly than before. And somehow the words, spoken under this woman’s eyes, make him feel stupidly guilty.

Which he also doesn’t like, and is on the edge of hating.

“That, may not be possible.” The woman says in an indifferent way that means there is no _may be_ about it.

“Why?” Caleb somehow gets out with a tongue that feels dry and thick in his mouth.

“Our shop...” She murmurs delicately, still coldly indifferent but with a tang of false honesty too. “We have a reputation to uphold.”

“Reputation.” Caleb repeats.

“We are accustomed to enjoying most glamorous patronage. We must match this tone of nobility, our reputation must be stainless. Our guests are noble and highly esteemed, and expect the highest quality of service. It is of upmost importance to us, that we are well known for our respectability and skill, as craftsmen.”

“We have money,” Caleb states with equal coldness beginning to match the woman’s. “And you have made no objection to me, though my coat is patched.”

“To be...quite honest,” the woman says, finally transferring her eyes to Mollymauk, and speaking with him in scathing directness. “You sir, are a man...and you wish for women’s clothing...”

Something in Molly’s face darkens when the woman so callously asserts _Man_, crumpling under momentary injury before closing off completely. Jester is already opening her mouth, and gets as far as an indignant “so?!?” Before Beau unexpectedly speaks up.

“So if I wanted a suit,” she snaps out with barely restrained dislike, “you wouldn’t let me have a set of men’s clothes?”

The woman opens her mouth like a gaping fish, momentarily casting a discomfited look in Beau’s direction.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Beauregard says before the seamstress gets a chance to recover herself. The monk kicks at the swaths of pink silk around her feet, and begins yanking out pins and temporary draping, as she keeps talking. “Fuck this. Let’s blow this joint.”

Jester is already moving before Beau finishes speaking, hauling away bolts of fabric to haphazardly stuff back into incorrect shelves. The seamstress is starting to protest, trying at least to stop Jester from wreaking havoc under the pretense of cleaning up, but Caleb doesn’t wait to hear. He’s already pulling on Molly’s sleeve, guiding the tiefling away from the unfortunate scene with a guilty hole in his stomach, that whispers to him that he’s blundered into a wound that he can’t as easily heal.

“It seems that you didn’t find a satisfactory shade of black, my darling...” Molly says after they leave the shop, ingratiating his arm through Caleb’s.

Caleb doesn’t say anything. He just squeezes Molly’s arm, with that maddeningly illusive _I want you to be happy_ burning in the back of his throat. For the moment anyway he’s given up trying to say it.

<><><>

In the end, Molly buys a bright scarlet coat from the tailor they visit after Jester has thoroughly insulted the last establishment by every foul monicker she can think of.

Under Caleb’s instance that Molly at least wear _something_ new, he stands getting measured for it, as Caleb once more feels the texture of every single fabric around him. It’s more to please Caleb than to please himself, Caleb can tell as the tiefling stands looking bored under the measuring tape. At least his face brightens at the bright ruby fabric the tailor offers.

Neither of them broach the subject of dresses again, and Caleb avoids looking at the feminine silks just as steadfastly as Mollymauk could himself. And Mollymauk does indeed keep his eyes resignedly locked in the opposite direction, the entire time his coat is fitted.

<><><>

Caleb taps almost inaudibly on Jester’s door several days later, shuffling nervously in the hallway outside the room she’s renting with Beauregard. He doesn’t hear any response to his knock, and is just coming to the conclusion that Jester must not be there, when the blue tiefling herself flings the door open. She’s got a wide grin on her face, tail whipping mischievously, and cries out “Caaaaayleb!” at the top of her lungs.

Flinching at her volume, and wishing—not for the first time—that she could be more discreet, he offers a watery smile.

“What are you doing here?” Jester asks with painful frankness, her head tilted on one side like a puppy.

“Can I come in?” Caleb demands with his own brand of painful frankness. But at the moment he can’t think of anything more polite, through the pressing need to get Jester out of sight, somewhere that they can’t be overheard.

Jester’s response is to yank him into her room with a terrific jerk that makes his shoulder throb, and close her door with a healthy slam. Stumbling to a stop just inside her bedroom, Caleb ruefully massages his tender shoulder. Jester artlessly pads around to stand in front of him, bending inwards to peer upwards into his face, as he stubbornly directs his eyes to the floor.

“Well?” She prompts, when she fails to catch a good look at his face, and Caleb still hasn’t spoken for nearly a minute.

“I don’t want you to feel...you don’t have to...that is to say—“ Caleb struggles for words, “you are allowed to say no, if it’s too much trouble.” And he casts a furtive half glance out, to gauge her reaction.

At least on the surface she just looks confused.

“You haven’t told me what it is yet,” she says, wrinkling her freckled nose.

“I—ah—“ Caleb falters, fingers dancing in front of his mouth for a half moment, as he’s on the edge of biting his nails. Then he forces his hand away, and speaks the words hurriedly. “I memorized Mollymauk’s measurements.”

Jester’s silence, and the way her face wrinkles up again, says more clearly than words “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“So I thought...” Caleb tries to hint.

But it falls flat, Jester looks completely lost.

“So I thought you could use them...” Caleb mumbles, voice sinking toward a whisper as he fights the urge to bite his nails again. “To...buy Mollymauk a dress...”

Jester’s scream of happiness is _earsplitting_, and she manhandles him into a hug that makes his ribs pop. She continues to squeeze him, as she lifts him bodily off the floor, and spins in a half circle, chattering away all the time. “Cayleb! That’s so amazing! I’m so happy you asked! Of course I will. Molly will look so cute. Oh mannnnn, I can’t wait!!!”

Finally she sets him down, stumbling on unsteady legs and clutching his ribs. In the following silence she playfully pats his back, while Caleb doubles over wheezing with the effort of trying to get his breath back.

“Of course I will do that.” Jester says kindly, when Caleb finally straightens and risks another glance at her face.

“I can...give you the numbers. But I really don’t understand anything else.” Caleb says with a guilty shrug.

“Oh, don’t you worry, Caleb.” Jester coos, in her sultry Tusk Love voice, laying her hand on his arm. “I’ll take care of everything. Just leave it to me.”

“_Ja_...” Caleb mumbles. “_Ja_ ok.”

“I’ll find something fabulous.” The blue teifling promises, with a toothy grin that makes Caleb hope he hasn’t confided this task to the wrong person.

Undoubtedly Jester has better taste than he does. He just hopes that she takes this commission seriously enough to actually use it.

<><><>

It takes Jester even longer than he thought to complete her commission, and it’s almost the last minute when she finally brings her purchases to Caleb and Molly’s shared bedchamber.

Caleb is trying not to fidget too noticeably, as Mollymauk flits around the wizard helpfully. Time is trickling down, and Caleb is only too aware of how long Jester has left him without the slightest clue as to how the time has been used. A part of him uncomfortably wonders if Jester forgot, or spent his money on something else, or made a mistake, or couldn’t find a more liberally minded seamstress in time...or a thousand other possibilities that cloud Caleb’s thoughts.

“It’s just for one night.” Mollymauk intones carefully, as he helps Caleb slip an arm through the waistcoat.

The tiefling drifts around to the front, batting away Caleb’s hands, and button’s the wizard’s waistcoat for him. The attention makes Caleb fight down a blush. Once its fastened, the tiefling tugs out every last imaginary wrinkle. His hands linger affectionately in the region of Caleb’s stomach, and his eyes when they meet Caleb’s, are a loving shade of scarlet.

“But if you really can’t stand it, we could always put an illusion over your old clothes,” he murmurs with a soft voice to match the eyes, and he brushes his fingers along the inside of Caleb’s wrist.

Apparently the tiefling has mistaken Caleb’s preoccupation for dissatisfaction about his clothes. The sympathetic words, and the kindness that goes with them, both prove it. Realizing the misunderstanding, Caleb forces himself to smile and bring Molly’s knuckles up to his lips.

“Just one night,” he echoes with a faint shrug.

The tiefling shivers. Both over the words, and the soft brush of lips to his fingers. Mollymauk’s eyes have unconsciously fastened on his lavender fingers next to Caleb’s mouth, and his other hand has settled over Caleb’s waistcoated chest, leaning hard into the silk clad human before him. Most damning of all, there’s a stiff flick to his tail that Caleb has come to recognize as a sign of Molly’s interest. Just the same way a human’s pupils might dilate.

Something about this situation: the long ritual of dressing, the unusual extravagance of Caleb’s clothes, and the absentminded affections while wearing them...seems to be special to the tiefling somehow. Caleb carefully files the information away for later. At least, he reflects, if Jester disappoints him in the dress department, Mollymauk still seems very interested in Caleb’s clothes regardless. They’ll probably find ample enjoyment in each other either way.

But Jester doesn’t disappoint.

With hardly a knock at the door for warning, she bursts into the room, triumphantly hauling an oversized box with her. The interruption sends the two men scattering apart, Caleb flushed and tugging on his waistcoat in the mirror, Mollymauk slipping away to fuss over Caleb’s dress coat laid out on the bed. Advancing across the room, she deposits the truly enormous box on the bed, thankfully where Caleb’s coat won’t be crushed.

“Mannn that box was heavy,” Jester playfully complains, wiping her brow.

“What’s this for, Jester dear?” Molly asks with a raised eyebrow.

Jester’s simper in answer is truly enough to give Caleb cavities, and she doesn’t answer directly. Only wiggles her eyebrows, and says in a tempting purr, “why don’t you find out Molly.”

With apparently no intention of lingering, she drifts away toward the door. Caleb casts an agitated look in her direction, trying to interrogate from her whether she approves of her purchases or not. But all he can figure out from her face is a glowing sense of self satisfaction, toothily biting her lip, and casting Caleb a deeply meaningful glance that he can’t in the least understand, before she backs out of the room and shuts the door.

For several seconds he stares after her, trying to decipher what that last look from Jester meant, eyes locked on the innocently closed door where he last saw her face. When he comes to himself, its with the realization that the silence in the room has suddenly gone from comfortable to weighted. It’s a tension in the room he could cut with a knife, as he cautiously turns to see what Mollymauk’s reaction is.

The tiefling is standing frozen in front of the box. He’s wrestled off the cardboard lid, and is now clutching it in nerveless fingers, as he stands still as a stone statue in front of the revealed contents. Vaguely Caleb can catch glimpses of blood red silk, laid in careful drifts around the inside of the huge box, but he hardly notices through his avid attention to the micro expressions on Molly’s face.

Truly, Mollymauk looks almost frightened. A wave of self doubt travels down Caleb’s frame, icewater chilling him from head to foot. Maybe he’s overstepped. Maybe he’s broken faith somehow. Maybe he’s purchased something Mollymauk didn’t want. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

With the reticence of a guilty man, Caleb approaches Mollymauk as if the package on the bed is accusing the wizard of a crime. He stops almost at Molly’s shoulder, stomach sour with dread at Molly’s impending judgment. Finally Mollymauk moves. His arm drifts out, clumsy and slow, as if he isn’t even controlling his own movement, and brushes his fingers over the silk in its box.

Jester’s choice is a deep scarlet ballgown, all in the same color. With simple bustle and gathers, the focal point is the evening gown’s bodice, with carefully gathered pleats along the front and a low cut neckline that is deeply feminine. A masquerade mask of nearly the same red shade, carefully beaded with droplet pendants that look more than a little like blood, and a slender snakelike mischief in the eyeholes, is placed carefully on top of the dress to match with it. Observing the complete picture, Caleb’s stomach swoops with gratitude and wonder at the amount of careful thought Jester must have dedicated to every smallest detail.

“You did this?” Mollymauk breathes into the complete silence.

“_Ja_...” Caleb confesses in a tiny whisper. “You deserve something pretty...”

Still moving with dreamlike slowness, Molly wraps his fingers around the shoulders of the dress, pulling it half out of the box. He’s still just looking at it, as if he can hardly believe it’s there, like the silk will vaporize in his fingers.

“I can wear this?” Molly says, almost incredulous.

“It is yours.” Caleb says with equal care. “You could wear it every day for the rest of your life, if you pleased.”

Mollymauk chuckles through this breathless kind of little laugh, as if he still doesn’t believe it. But disbelief or not, Caleb can see Molly’s greed starting to take over. He brushes the silk between his fingers as if he’s obsessed with the smooth texture, and tugs the dress further out of the box to look at it more fully. Caleb watches him explore with a slowly expanding sense of congratulation, as he grows more and more sure that his hunch was correct, and this was after all a very good purchase.

As the full disemboweling commences, Caleb quickly realizes that Jester has made the addition of several items that Caleb didn’t realize were necessary. Not only has she purchased the dress, but there is also a complete set of red crystal jewelry to match the mask. As well as undergarments of soft linen, with laced edges, that look far more delicate and feminine than Caleb’s or Molly’s (Caleb’s because he’s intensely practical and doesn’t care about undergarments, Molly because he doesn’t actually wear any kind of underclothing at all). The linen shift, drawers, and stockings on the other hand, all look extremely pretty, and more than a little expensive. It makes Caleb hope that Jester hasn’t overspent the money he gave her and, gods forbid, used money of her own.

Beneath everything else, like Jester hid it till last on purpose, is something that Caleb would never have dreamed of. But he can’t deny that he colors with mingled embarrassment and a swoop of interest, as soon as Mollymauk holds it up. An intricate white corset.

Mollymauk’s noise as he realizes what it is, sounds half strangled, like a sound of intense satisfaction he can’t quite hold back. The dress is almost completely forgotten, as he just stares at it, and Caleb stares at Molly with the dawning realization that Mollymauk has apparently been interested in this. The tiefling’s wide eyes, trembling fingers, and signaling tail are more than enough to prove it.

“Do you want to put them on?” Caleb murmurs, wrapping his arms around the tiefling’s waist from behind.

The sound Molly makes isn’t exactly something Caleb has heard him produce before. A breathy kind of whine, that is half involuntary assent, and all wordless longing. And oh..._that_ was a very good sound, that Caleb immediately wants Molly to make again. Caleb hears Molly whine, and feels the tiefling’s abdominal muscles lock up under his arms where they’re wrapped around Molly’s waist, and knows with a swoop of heat through his own stomach that this is...exactly what he thinks it is.

“Come on,” he makes a pretense at coaxing, reaching past Molly to snag the linen slip from the box. “Let me dress you up, Mollymauk Tealeaf.”

“Caleb—“ Molly breathes. But already it’s less the wizards name, and more than half that same slightly needy sound again.

The wizard doesn’t answer. Already he’s on the trail, and is a far too determined man to abandon a task, just because Molly said his name. He only plucks the corset from Molly’s nerveless fingers, and firmly untucks the tiefling’s shirt so he can shuck it off, and slide down the shift in its place.

Contrary to whatever the rest of the Nein might believe, Caleb does in fact know how women’s clothing works. He may not understand why certain fabrics are “styilish”, or what unspoken sorcery goes into the creation of a woman’s evening gown. But he knows how women’s garments are worn. After unskillfully helping Astrid lace, and button, and pin, and prink herself into formal gowns years ago, Caleb does have a functional understanding of the procedures. Enough to keep from embarrassing himself anyway. And certainly enough to be doing more than half the work, fitting Molly in unfamiliar clothes the tiefling has never experienced before.

So Molly ends up about as helpful as wet sand. It’s a supremely satisfying compliance, almost childlike, as Molly gives up completely and lets Caleb dress him. The linen shift, delicate drawers, and silk stockings all slip into place, already transforming the lavender tiefling’s skin underneath. The lace looks feminine, the softer fabrics delicate, and Molly is clearly enjoying the beauty. He keeps looking at himself with wide eyed wonderment, and completely open admiration, shuddering almost imperceptibly every time he moves and the fabric brushes his skin.

Finally Caleb lifts the corset, and Mollymauk’s breathing has already gone shallow with anticipation before Caleb’s even put it on him. Caleb feels the teifling shock under his touch, jumping as the wizard touches Molly’s arm to turn him in the right direction. Carefully Caleb wraps the stays around Molly’s angular waist, narrow without a woman’s more curved hips, and fits the busk. He has to pluck at the lacing to draw the corset tight enough that it won’t unclasp, and he doesn’t miss the way Molly’s breath catches at even the slightest tug.

“Here,” Caleb murmurs affectionately, prompting Molly to turn with a hand on the tiefling’s hips. “Hold onto the bedpost.”

Molly nods shakily, whether he’s really understood Caleb or not, and grips whitening fingers around the post of the inn’s fourposter bed. Even though Mollymauk is clearly impatient, Caleb pauses long enough to settle a hand over the now stiff boning that cages Molly’s waist, and settles a kiss in the hollow angle of Molly’s neck and shoulder.

“Ready?” He asks in a murmur, hand drifting to find the loosened lacings waiting to be drawn tightly to shape.

“Yeah...” Molly says, and its more like an exhale of tension than anything else.

“Alright then...”

Steeling himself, Caleb backs off, and begins. With the first true pull Mollymauk stumbles hard, as if he didn’t expect the sharpness of it, or better yet...as if all the anticipation still didn’t truly prepare him. Caleb wants to pause, but at the first sign of relenting, Molly huffs out a discontented growl. So Caleb decides to give in, and keep going without pause unless Mollymauk seems truly upset.

Which he doesn’t.

The sight of Mollymauk quickly inspires Caleb with a kind of awe, a naked admiration for the sight unfolding before him. Before the stays have even become restrictive, Molly is trembling noticeably. His breathing is different too, heavy and sensitized, like the pretty gasps and shuddering exhales that would usually be reserved for something much more intimate. Though Caleb is hard-pressed to think of a name for what they’re doing, that could possibly be anything else.

Caleb tugs at the laces and Molly shudders hard. The corset boning molds a new shape, and Molly fights to breathe through whatever sensations he’s feeling. Caleb wraps the laces through his fingers, pulls sharply as the artificial curves bite down on Molly’s skin, and the teifling outright whimpers like a wounded animal, clinging to the bedpost as if he can barely stand on his own.

Under Caleb’s hands, the wizard watches Molly transform, changing shape beneath his very fingers. As the lacing draws tighter, the corset boning carefully restricts, and new feminine curves begin to appear. Molly’s already slim waist only gets more delicate, his curves become sharply pronounced, his hips emerge full and feminine. And gods, Caleb can’t get enough of him.

Mollymauk looks delicate, and _beautiful_. So slender it feels like Caleb could snap the tiefling’s waist with his fingers. He’s suddenly curvy and effeminate, like an exotic but forbidden piece of artwork. It’s lush, and alluring, and gorgeous, and ravishing all at once. In one word, this new Mollymauk is the picture of temptation.

When Caleb finally stops and ties off the laces, Molly is trembling like a newborn fawn trying to find its legs, his breathing sweet with whimpering moans. Caleb himself is far from being untouched, and struggles to find his balance. It’s difficult to breathe in the suddenly too warm air of the room, and the heated clench of desire in Caleb’s gut isn’t the only token of his weakness.

Taking care to gauge Mollymauk’s boundaries, Caleb finally steps back into the tiefling’s space. Once more his hands cup Molly’s now emphasized hips, and he tucks his nose into the same crook of Molly’s neck where he kissed before, finding it humid with sweat now. As if he’s lost in a haze, Mollymauk is still clinging to the bedpost, yielding his neck with a tilt of his head, as Caleb’s lips land there.

“Beautiful.” Is all Caleb can find to say, tracing kisses up the side of Molly’s fevered pulse.

Molly purrs a wordlessly pleased hum in response, trying to open his neck more fully.

“You. Are. Incredible. Mollymauk.” Caleb intones, tightening his arms around the tiefling’s waist. “So beautiful...”

He lets his hands wander. One sliding around to attentively circle Molly’s waist, palm flat against the unnatural stiff fabric where the stays tuck Molly’s stomach in. The other drifts aimlessly, and Caleb drags his fingers over the curve of Molly’s horn, feeling each ridge under the pads of his fingers. Molly practically melts under the touch, shoulders expanding and relaxing, as his head rolls easily under Caleb’s fingers.

“Such a lovely creature,” Caleb says, bladed honey rising easily to his tongue. Because charm is a tool, and Caleb know exactly how he wants this knife to dissect Mollymauk’s parts.

“So pretty...and all for me...”

He drops his hand from Molly’s stomach. Drifting down to cup where he _knows_, by the sounds Molly is making and the way he yields under Caleb’s lips, that the wizard will find Molly so, so ready to melt with the slightest touch. Caleb growls “so beautiful...” and lightly cups Molly’s erection, the straining member stiffened painfully under Caleb’s searching palm.

The sound Molly makes is a whimpering moan, like he’s almost in pain, and he falters on his feet like he’s about to fall. It makes Caleb jump, almost frightened by how responsive Molly is, and tighten his grip on Molly’s waist to keep the teifling upright. Molly’s trembling fingers grip the bedpost, Caleb steadies the tiefling with a hand returned to his corseted waist, and for a moment they cautiously wait for equilibrium.

And then Caleb dares to lay his hand over Molly’s concealed erection again, only lightly cupping. Molly chokes on even that slight sensation, something like a whimper for mercy dropping from his lips.

“Shhhh,” Caleb chides at the sound, still holding Molly upright, to make sure he’ll keep at least a semblance of balance.

For a moment Caleb just waits, letting Mollymauk adjust, build confidence. Before the wizard plucks it all apart again with a gentle squeeze, the shadow of pressure around Molly’s tented groin. Molly blanches under the strain, in a way that makes Caleb’s stomach clench just to watch. But better yet is the naked animal noise that drops from his lips. Almost sobbing as if Caleb’s hurt him.

“Beautiful,” Caleb repeats because it’s so overwhelmingly true. “You are such a beautiful woman, Mollymauk.”

The tiefling is hopelessly unable to hide how affected he is, stripped completely naked even though he’s half clothed by technicality. Caleb drinks it in. He admires the way Molly trembles for the slightest word, melts before the slightest touch, crumples completely at the slightest stimulation to his oversensitive member. It’s incredible, and a predator’s craving snaps behind Caleb’s teeth. Ravenous and eager to despoil Mollymauk completely.

They’re interrupted before it can happen.

A sound of someone hammering on the door, incessantly, and without any apparent intention of stopping, makes them both startle. Molly jerks badly, like he’s been stung, still clinging to the bedpost with the lost look of someone forcefully yanked from a dream. While Caleb only just has time to peel his hands away from Molly’s magnetic waist, and hastily retreat to his coat on the other side of the bed, before Jester pokes her nose into the room.

“You’d better be dressed, because I’m coming innn!” She sings, and Caleb hopes that it’s only accidental that she sounds so menacing to his ears.

She doesn’t really wait for any kind of reply, before invading their room like an extremely sweet, but very unwelcome ray of sunshine. By that time Caleb has safely retired to a distance, where he’s doing his best to not look at anyone or anything in particular, and hope nobody comments on the way his face is burning. If she notices anything guilty about their demeanor, she doesn’t say anything, for which Caleb is unspeakably grateful. That doesn’t mean she hasn’t noticed, but the last thing Caleb is going to do is look at her face to find out.

“Let me see how you—Molly!” She claps her hands together with excitement, voice rising to a squeal. “You look so gooooood! Ohmygosh, I knew you would look amazing in a corset!”

Molly laughs, and it still sounds a little forced, but mostly goodnatured. He’s always been more adept at recovering his feet, regardless of the most embarrassing situations, that Caleb with his clumsy tongue and blushing face can only envy. The sound of Molly’s chuckle makes Caleb smile, secretly satisfied to hear his words echoed by another. In his opinion Molly, in all his fascinating edges, can’t be admired enough.

_Scheisse, you really are in love, Caleb Widogast_...

Withdrawing to the corner, until he can be sure of his own face again, Caleb shrugs into his coat, settling the wool felt across his shoulders. It feels stiff and foreign. Like putting on a piece of armor, instead of clothing. And for him, it is. He retrieves his mask from the table, just a simple white affair that looks as plain as the rest of his outfit, but it half feels as if he’s already wearing it. In the sophisticated clothes of another person, the clean face and hands of another person, it feels like he’s wearing a costume already.

When he turns around Jester has pulled the plentiful folds of silk completely out of the box, and is in the middle of dissecting Molly’s dress. Mollymauk has relaxed his posture, and is sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand playfully hovering over the silken folds. He turns his head over his shoulder, casting an open smile in Caleb’s direction, and...oh...

Caleb’s hardly even looked at Mollymauk yet.

The tiefling’s curls are still loose and carefree, starting to kiss his shoulders as they grow unchecked, and scatter messily in his face. There’s a slight flush to his cheeks, a vivid sparkle to his eyes, the warmth of excitement not yet fully conquered. He looks pretty, and piquant, and completely unconscious of it.

And still so unfairly feminine. While Caleb has felt the change up close, and indeed couldn’t get enough of his hands on it, the effect is just as forcible from a distance. Maybe even more-so. The tiefling is still a little narrow chested, smooth where a woman would have breasts. But Caleb couldn’t care fucking less, with how Molly’s waist has been coaxed into this hourglass shape, that is unbelievably tempting.

He enjoys Mollymauk’s usual presentation of course. Flamboyant, and irreverent, and every bit the showman. He enjoy’s Molly’s cut glass smile, and his slender chest, and his bony hips, and of course the teifling’s firmly masculine equipment. Honestly Caleb couldn’t care less what Molly chooses to call his body, as long as it’s Mollymauk in it.

That said.

Caleb would be lying if he asserted that he wasn’t attracted to Mollymauk’s delicate body in that corset. Because he is...having a very hard time thinking about anything else right now.

The smile Molly gives him, as the tiefling holds out a hand to summon Caleb closer, is more than a little sympathetic. He looks soft, and kind, and just a little bit rueful, as he waits for Caleb to approach. Which Caleb does, shuffling close enough to take Molly’s offered hand, and chafe it in his own.

“I get the feeling this process might take a while,” Mollymauk murmurs.

His eyes wander over Caleb’s costume as he says it, and Caleb can’t help but think that it has much of the same admiring heat that the wizard already given to Mollymauk’s form. When Molly’s eyes come back they look sharper, sparkling with vivacious fire, and Caleb is almost sure of it.

“I could help...if you want...” Caleb suggests, reluctant to leave this new more magnetic Mollymauk.

“Wouldn’t want to spoil the effect, darling.” Mollymauk says with a chiding grin. “No sneak-peeks.”

“_Ja_ ok...”

Caleb lifts Molly’s hand, meaning to press a chaste kiss to the tiefling’s knuckles, and no more. But the fingers that brush against his lips rebel. Mollymauk unexpectedly cups Caleb’s chin, pulling the wizard down to Molly’s hight. Their lips meet, still just as chaste as the kiss to Molly’s fingers had been, but so much harder for Caleb to resist. He wants to deepen the touch, hungry with passion waiting to be released. Wants to take Molly’s mouth, and Molly’s contoured waist; explore the strange contrast of a delicate appearance, created by strong form, until he’s touched it all. And it shows in the way he lingers just a second too long, hesitating over Molly’s mouth.

Then Mollymauk is pulling away, with that sympathetic smile back on his lips, and the spell is over. Caleb is back in firm control of himself. He steps away, retaining Mollymauk’s hand till he absolutely has to let it go. The last glance back shows him Molly with a burning promise in his eyes, and Jester—with remarkable tact—pretending to not look at anything.

Then Caleb slips around the edge of the door to their rented room, and makes a hasty retreat, for the moment.

<><><>

The Carnival is a blurred whirl of torchlight and jewel-tone colors.

Everything around them is transformed. Masked figures brushing shoulders in the streets, banners and streamers hanging from buildings. Torches burn so bright and numerous that the cobblestones are as well lit as daylight, everything washed in a fiery orange tone.

Through this haze of bright colors, masked anonymity, and plentiful entertainment the Nein let loose completely.

Beauregard has made good on her suggestion about wearing men’s clothes. She’s now dressed in a sharply tailored blue coat, with military lapels and epaulets. The mask over her face is gray and brown feathers, sleek and watchful like a falcon or some other bird of prey, through which her eyes look piercing. Nott has a twofold costume, combined of illusory magic and her magical armor. Which makes her look like Veth everywhere that her skin shows, gives her a stylized peasant costume for the Carnival, and a doll-like mask that completely covers her face. Fjord explains his fully decked out pirate costume with one long suffering sigh, and the word “Jester,” which is explanation enough. And makes even more sense when Jester is standing next to him, because not only did she pick out Fjord’s pirate costume, but she’s matched it with one of her own. The only one unchanged is Yasha, who has only added a white porcelain mask that bears the same tattoo over the chin as herself; and Caleb, who’s wearing the new clothes and a white mask that bears no special marks at all.

They’re a rambunctious group at the best of times, but the festival just makes it worse. It’s an abundance of alcohol and noise, and they’re all just sloppy drunk enough to not even care about being discrete anymore. Beauregard is throwing firecrackers beneath everyone’s feet, while Yasha does her best to keep the monk from actually getting in a fight. Jester is dancing with Nott on her shoulders, and Fjord is currently trying (and failing) to toss rings over a stick for prizes. It’s carefree and colorful, and Caleb is swept away on the rush of brash confidence.

Mollymauk is even better.

He looks otherworldly. Like some fae creature, or demon, or forgotten goddess from stories. The blood red dress completes him, sleek through the bodice, and bare-shouldered. Faint beading glitters under the lamplight, along the edge of Molly’s shoulders, peeking from the skirt, and dropping delicately from his mask and horns. The beads still look more than a little like blood, and its unsettling in a very demonic way, but is also so true to the macabre side of Mollymauk and his teifling nature, that Caleb finds himself in awe.

But it’s more than just the dress. It’s not a simple matter of beads and fabric, but the fire of the person who’s wearing it. Mollymauk looks alive in this other self, this persona of blood red allure and woman’s curves. He looks...beautiful...

This night _belongs_ to him. A sparkle of fireworks, and nightlights glittering in his teeth. The torches catch gold and gilded on the edge of his horns, the spicy tang of incense clings to his clothes, the glow of exertion burns in his eyes. Truly the festival disarray is his element.

Caleb is enchanted, and completely past denying it. He can’t hope to keep up. All he can do is watch with an open mouth, stumbling in the tiefling’s wake, as he practically worships this scarlet goddess dragging him around by the hand.

At his side Mollymauk makes a sudden movement, plucking something out of the air. It’s a small bouquet of flowers, that some other masked marrymaker has thrown at him, and Molly catches it deftly. The person who threw it, a costumed young man standing with some other dandies, blows a kiss after the flowers.

“You seem to have an admirer,” Caleb says, frowning slightly, though he can more than understand the sentiment. Because Mollymauk is admirable.

The tiefling just laughs however.

“I believe I do,” he says with a crooked smile, turning on Caleb meaningfully.

Without the least sign of sentiment for the bouquet, or the man who threw it, Molly plucks the bundle to bits, until he’s only got one flower. A dusky violet, that he selects from the rest, and tucks into Caleb’s buttonhole. It clashes glaringly against the wizard’s scrupulously plain dress coat, but Caleb finds himself blushing with appreciation at the gift...and the reassurance behind it.

“Now, I want you to take me dancing.” Mollymauk says with careful instruction, when he pulls away.

Caleb can’t find the ability to do anything else but nod.

And follow, as Mollymauk leads the way forward. It’s easy to search out a strain of music, tracing their steps toward an open public square. Here the space clears, and because of the musicians standing on a platform above the crowd, several people are dancing.

Here Mollymauk once more takes the lead, shouldering into the couples with Caleb in tow. Quickly Caleb falls into step, following as Molly begins to lead. It’s easier to let Molly have his way, and at this point the teifling is better anyhow, making their waltz look easy.

Encompassed in this little bubble of privacy, Caleb quickly gets lost in rhythm and admiration. The tiefling’s movements are fluid, graceful, effervescent with a sense of confidence that makes him magnetic. Caleb can’t help but appreciate, and wonder what chance luck has brought Mollymauk to him...he’s so wholly undeserving of it, that it almost feels like a joke.

“You really are beautiful, _schatz_...” Caleb mumbles, his step faltering as his head bows to rest on Molly’s shoulder.

“Thank you...” the teifling whispers kindly.

“I look like pig shit, next to you...” the wizard says, his confession halting and so much less than he wants.

“Now _that_ I really can’t agree with...”

As the teifling murmurs his disagreement, the light tips of his fingers comb through Caleb’s hair, faintly caressing the copper strands. It makes something...expand...in Caleb’s chest. Something settles in his shoulders, and Molly suddenly feels ten times warmer beneath the wizards fingers than before.

Vaguely Caleb notices that Mollymauk has allowed them to still. Guiding Caleb to the edge of the dancers where they won’t be crashed into. Molly is just standing now, letting Caleb breathe the smell of his lavender neck.

While they hover in each other’s space, Molly’s hand drifts away, leaving Caleb’s head abandoned. Instead the teifling reaches down, his lithe fingers curling around Caleb’s clumsy ones, and he lifts the wizard’s hand. Loaded with silent meaning Mollymauk plants Caleb’s hand on the inner curve of Molly’s corseted waist, wordlessly giving it permission to linger there.

Heat expands further as it happens. Caleb feels the silk against his fingers, and beneath that the stiff boning that alters Molly’s shape, merciless and inflexible. Once again his hand is back on the curve of Molly’s waist, itching to explore every rasp of the harsh stays that lie beneath his fingers. Almost before he can think about it, he lets the hand wander, stroking almost lovingly over the hourglass shape of Molly’s abdomen up to the tiefling’s chest and down again. Then he catches himself, and forces his hand to still, instead of publicly fondling Molly’s waist.

“Mollymauk...” he hesitates.

The teifling just hums, wordless and distracted. One lavender hand slides up Caleb’s arm to touch his jaw, and then the teifling’s lips are following it, nuzzling a kiss to stubbled skin.

It makes Caleb shiver, feeling a wave of heat pour through his limbs that leaves him feeling floaty. Almost unconsciously both his hands find Mollmauk’s hips, possessively gripping the tiefling closer before he can think about it, as he sways into Molly’s space. The teifling just gives into it, smiling through the little kisses he’s touching along Caleb’s jaw, and wrapping one hand around the back of Caleb’s neck.

“Mollymauk.” Caleb says more firmly.

As an answer Molly tilts away, and gods, some parts of that movement are the exact opposite of what Caleb wants.

“We can’t do that here,” Caleb growls.

The teifling grins, and tugs Caleb away.

As ever, the human is happy to follow. Remaining in public is just about the last desire on his mind at the moment, and as Mollymauk takes the lead, towing him back toward the inn where the Nein have rented their rooms, Caleb meekly follows. The crowds part around them, and in rapid time they’ve left the square behind, and are once more weaving through the humid streets.

Haphazardly Caleb retrieves a twist of wire from a pocket in his coat, and he manages (without knowing how he does it) to fumble through the components of a Message, and whispers into his wire. “_Nott, if you need me, I will be back at the inn_.” For a moment he considers adding Mollymauk to that provision, but the idea of mentioning that they’re both leaving the festival early—and conveniently _together_—lights his cheeks on fire and he abandons the idea.

“_Sounds good, Cay._”

Just as Caleb is blinking out of his distracted haze, Molly yanks him sideways through the door of the inn. It seems that the closer they get to their destination, the more determined Mollymauk becomes, all his movements sharpening with haste. Stumbling in the wake of Molly’s rapid footsteps, Caleb tries to keep up, as Molly dashes up the stairs to the second floor where their rooms are, trying to reach their own door.

They reach the door to their own room, and Molly darts through first, still one step ahead of Caleb. One step behind, Caleb follows, and then it all flips on its head. As the door closes, Caleb catches one flash of red almost pouncing on him, before something clicks into place with the click of the latch, and he morphs in the face of Molly’s onslaught.

With one rapid movement Mollymauk angles in for a kiss, and Caleb asserts mastery in the same instant, pinning the tiefling back against the door. And Caleb isn’t the strongest man, but Molly is the perfect kind of pliant, and the teifling’s waist beneath the silk bodice of his dress feels as slender as a twig. Power tastes hot and vivid under Caleb’s tongue, and Molly looks equally molten in the semi torchlight cast through the only window in their room.

Caleb jerks off his plain white mask with a grunt of frustration, and when his eyes return to Molly’s face, the tiefling is just removing his own. Both forgotten disguises fall somewhere on the floor, no longer important, as Caleb finally seizes Mollymauk under the chin and jerk’s the tiefling’s face up into a truly filthy kiss.

The lavender mouth beneath Caleb’s own feels molten hot. Panting with shortened breath, musical with half formed moans of desire, and razor sharp around the edges with hunger. Molly opens before Caleb’s appetite like it’s the last and only thing Molly wants to do, and he conforms completely against Caleb’s brittle frame. The tiefling’s hands grope at Caleb’s waistcoat, tugging on the silk like Molly can’t get enough and is pettishly demanding more, while white fangs catch at Caleb’s lower lip and tug.

For a half second the heat feels like heaven, and Caleb gives in before it. Allows the liberty of Molly’s fingers raking through his rusty hair, tolerates the presumption of Molly’s fingers around his scrawny waist, sates himself with the hedonism of devouring Molly’s gasping moans, heedless of everything else. Then self control grips Caleb’s limbs, patient denial snaps back into dominance, and he’s filled himself enough to last. To _wait_.

Mollymauk pretty much snarls, as Caleb jerks away, one arm already barred across the tiefling’s chest to curb rebellion. The tiefling beneath his restraint is a delightful mix of crestfallen, speechlessly pleading, and venomous. Predictably Molly does try to chase Caleb’s denying mouth, pinned by Caleb’s arm, and absolutely pissed about it. But Caleb doesn’t care. Mollymauk’s body has been testing Caleb’s restraint all night long.

Now that he actually has the chance, he’s going to take his fucking time with it.

“Why such a sour face?” Caleb growls, leaning hard against Molly’s chest beneath his arm, as he tastes the teifling’s needy breath forming steam on the air between them. “Did you think you were going to get something, here?”

The answer he gets is another rebellious and unsuccessful press against his arm.

“You thought you would get pretty kisses? Some sweet words?” Caleb says threateningly.

Molly moans like the most angelic little kitten, playing the part.

“You thought I would play nice?” Caleb says, as the menace fully asserts itself, and he pins Molly down like a prey animal. “You thought I would get on my knees for you? Beg for you to give me your body?”

He angles a knee between the teifling’s legs, offering his victim much needed stimulation, even as he growls threateningly. “You thought I would suck down that slutty cock of yours? Get on my knees, and let you fuck my mouth? Until you can get off like a needy whore, and have everything you want from me.”

It’s little more than words. But under Caleb’s speech, and the half ghost of pressure from Caleb’s knee between his legs, the teifling is rapidly falling apart. Words have always broken him. He gasps and his body quakes at the first touch between his legs, he bites his lip and moans the idea of Caleb sucking his cock, whimpers greedily and grinds on Caleb’s leg at the picture of getting off with Caleb kneeling for him.

“_Nein_.” Caleb says with inexorable denial as he steps back and leaves Molly trembling against the door. “You don’t get to have that.”

The way Mollymauk blanches, stumbling like he might not quite keep his feet, has Caleb at full attention, ready to jump back in if it looks like the tiefling is going to fall. But Molly doesn’t topple. He just clings to the door like kicked puppy, his face reproachful with a melodramatic show of distress and contrition.

“Go, and sit on the bed.” Caleb says, his speech clipped and precise. The tone of someone expecting—demanding—to be obeyed.

He doesn’t wait to have his order followed, at least not physically. But in truth, as he turns away and walks to the table, he’s already listening avidly to hear Molly’s slightest movement. So he catches the rustle of fabric, as Molly obediently moves to the bed.

Attending himself for a moment, Caleb shrugs out of his coat. Even in the claustrophobia of the room, overheated with anticipation, Caleb can’t bring himself to treat the expensive tailoring with less than full respect. He folds the coat carefully, savoring the way it makes the patience stretch into something painful, removes his cuff links, undoes his necktie, slightly unbuttons his shirt.

In this new more comfortable garb, still formal enough to maintain a reminder of nobility and forbidden dignity, he shuffles to light the few candles in the room. Under their light the shadows grow smaller and more condensed at the same time, large pools of golden firelight filling the room between them. Then he moves back over to the bed.

Mollymauk is waiting for him, wound tight with delayed expectation, and almost leaning in the wizard’s direction. Caleb pretends to ignore it. Instead Mollymauk’s travel pack and coat are sitting at the foot of the bed, and Caleb reaches into the pack, digging down for an embarrassingly familiar phial. They’ve already used up half of it...again, embarrassing...but there will be more than enough.

Mollymauk makes a sound, not quite a whine, but not quite anything else—a sharply drawn keen of distress—when Caleb straightens with the bottle in his hand. The teifling’s shoulder’s look tense, his body crouched, his fingers clawing into the edge of the mattress...as if he’s just started to scent his danger...

“Lie back.” Caleb directs coldly, impartial in his distance.

The teifling obeys. His long, slender, impossibly delicate form stretches out, luxuriously framed against the sheets. Molly’s knees are still hooked over the edge of the mattress, but as he lays out he still looks too long for the bed, elastic and lanky like a cat. There he settles, coiled and waiting, curls scattered across the sheets, slightly rumpled skirt and formfitting bodice glistening under the torchlight with the changeful sheen of silk.

Perfect.

Too perfect. Molly looks like an heiress. Like every noble woman Caleb has ever seen or imagined, absolutely rolling in money, skin so delicate in its sensibilities that it can’t tolerate less than the finest satins to touch it. The moment is an intense sense memory that prickles over him, remembering mud thrown on him from gold trimmed carriage wheels, as some lofty duchess passes by.

The moment is past, but Too Perfect Mollymauk remains. The distaste also passes, and leaves behind hunger in it’s place. This is no titled beauty he can never hope to touch, no draping flower of womanhood that would wilt at the slightest brush from shit stained hands, this is Mollymauk.

And the teifling is strong, present, and most of all _filthy_.

He’s the image of nobility, but none of the deportment; a mockery of wealth, with none of the acerbic pride. He’s mocking Mollymauk, and even his name is a vaunted insult. It’s there in the sparkle of his eyes, the too-pretty-to-be-accidental scatter of his curls. The hand that teases where his breasts become concealed beneath the dress, and the lust filled sweep of his tongue licking his lips. Mollymauk looks like a tender princess...but they’re about to blaspheme that image completely.

Caleb stands seemingly unaffected over this pretty picture, and itches to ruin it. Like an enticing virgin, dressed for the night, Molly is waiting to be debauched. And Caleb wants nothing more than to oblige, and defile this innocent perfection.

“Lift your skirt.” Caleb commands hungrily.

The sound Mollymauk makes is half shaken composure, and all gut wrenching desire. Unconsciously he sucks his lower lip in, worrying the flesh between pearly fangs, as he pleads with his eyes. But no help comes, Caleb just waits, and finally Molly displays his need.

Doesn’t fight for it, struggle for it, demand that Caleb give it. He just spreads his legs, and tugs up his skirts in bunched handfuls. He looks pleading, and submissive, and so, so filthy. His skirts rumpled and in danger of creasing, white petticoats exposed, skin flushed and eyes needy. Begging for sex with open legs and a lifted skirt, exposing himself while Caleb does nothing but watch.

Finally Caleb moves. He steps into the negative space between Molly’s knees, and bends to take one of Molly’s feet. It feels small and dainty in his hand, pure white in expensive stockings...the glitter of false riches and assimilated aristocracy once again...Danger snapping behind his teeth, Caleb gently rolls down the fabric, stripping Molly’s stockings away. The teifling’s linen drawers follow, leaving his hips and cock—fuck, his needy, perky little cock—exposed to the air. Delicate form and pretty lavender, laid out like a feast in the nest of lacy petticoats. And Molly just watches, eyes blazing with restrained arousal.

With pronounced caution, Caleb tucks Molly’s skirts out of the way. “Wouldn’t want to muck up your dress...” he murmurs, the mocking glitter in his eye screened behind a vague pretense at gentility.

Mollymauk hisses through his teeth, shuddering into the matress.

Crawling into the gap between Molly’s obscenely opened legs, Caleb looms over Mollymauk beneath him. Still clipped, businesslike, heartlessly unaffected, he kneels there. Sits over Molly’s form without a grain of sympathy for the tiefling’s plight, and tips oil into his fingers, while Molly watches it all with a wide eyed mix of admiration and dread.

With the same ruthless lack of ceremony, Caleb corks the bottle, and dips his slicked fingers between the tiefling’s legs.

He ingratiates himself. Cajoles and piques the tiefling underneath him with careful fingers, making a show of deference. As he strokes the lightest brush of fingertips around Molly’s ring of muscle, pets and reassures...all the while knowing that Mollymauk would rather have anything else...

The sound of Molly’s frustration proves it. The way his hips rock down, his hands turn brittle. His eye looks rebellious, his mouth is all toothy fangs, and his twitching hips are anything but contented. Mollymauk is a brat, and he enjoys the dominance, the steel, the denial of not getting what he needs. Having Caleb attend to him with such an outward show of deference, chafes in the most frustrating way.

But Caleb just ignores him. They’ll get there soon enough.

“What do you think this is?” Caleb asks, surprising himself with his own words.

There’s a suddenly irresistible propensity to talk. To suggest, to banter, to _pretend_. To weave a tale that puts them in roles not their own, lives not their own, places far away from here. He’s not exactly tried it before. But he knows, _knows_, that the tiefling can’t resist a story. Can’t resist a lie.

“Who do you think you are?” He accordingly asks.

It’s more of a rumble really, as his finger finally dips into Molly’s flesh. The teifling huffs out the beginning of a moan, and Caleb keeps talking.

“Do you think you’re a lady?” He continues.

And now he sees it. Feels it too. As Molly’s eyes spark with understanding, and he stiffens with it too. Everything tensing up, before he practically melts.

“Are you rich?” Caleb asks, his voice sinking to a growl, as he leans forward to breath his words against Molly’s neck. “Maybe you’re an heiress. Maybe you’re the flower of the family. Maybe you’re rich, and just old enough to be married, and you’re so, so unacquainted with the tarnish of the world...”

He tilts his hand in. Prods out the slick heat of Molly’s flesh, and bites down on the tiefling’s shoulder, just to feel him shudder. Then he smiles into the bruised skin, and murmurs with a show of kindness, “because...you’ve never done this before, ja?”

Mollymauk moans at the suggestion, and the moan thickens—grows throaty—at the glancing rub to his prostate. His head tosses back, exposing his throat, and he seizes up beautifully. Enfeebled by pleasure, and greedily rocking down on Caleb’s fingers. Why not? Caleb obliges, and crooks his finger, just to see Mollymauk fall apart all over again.

“You’ve never had someone touch you like this...” Caleb croons, for the moment allowing Molly free reign to ride his touch. Lost in the way Molly gasps, chest shuddering through every breath. They way he reaches down to cling trembling fingers around Caleb’s wrist, holding the wizard’s hand in place. The way Molly’s entire body opens and blooms, softening slick and pliant beneath fondling touches, as he rolls his hips to fuck himself on Caleb’s hand.

Mollymauk looks absolutely wonton.

“You’ve never had someone undress you...” he breathes in time with his finger, focusing down on absolute ruining Molly’s prostate. “Never had someone unwrap you like a present, never had someone touch your privates like a lover...Never had someone open up your pretty cunt to plant seed in...”

He breathes the last words over Molly’s throat. Bites down on Molly’s pulse, and adds a second finger at the same time. Listens to Mollymauk whimper over a heartbroken moan of intense arousal, cock shining and fat to bursting against his disheveled petticoats, hips grinding on Caleb’s hand. He stretches Molly’s body apart, everywhere and nowhere all at once, employing every tool of words and touches to his cause.

“Look at you,” Caleb coos, too sweet, too saccharine, rapidly undoing Mollymauk with nothing more than fingers. “You’re such a pretty little virgin. All speechless and soaked with pleasure. Your cunt is so wet and slutty, it’s practically begging for someone to fuck you. For someone to open you up and give you their dick, so you can be a woman and carry their seed.”

Mollymauk whimpers with wet interest, and Caleb knows the precum staining Molly’s undergarments is for Caleb’s suggestion of breeding. That Molly’s twitching cock and choked off moans, are for the idea of being used so thoroughly. Sex literally being nothing more than a function, his body and organs just a fruitful ground with a purpose, a cocksleeve for man’s pleasure to fill up. Caleb catches the interest, and files it further away for later.

More sweet words to croon in Mollymauk’s ear in the dead of night, until he spills himself sobbing on their echo.

“This sweet little body needs someone to breed it...” Caleb teases instead. “You need me.” He smiles more crookedly, almost snarls. “You need someone to put this wet begging cunt to use...” he twists his fingers up, letting Molly gasp and gush pre-spend on the very edge, “so it might as well be me...” and mercilessly withdraws his fingers.

A choking sob of deprivation tears from Molly’s throat, as tears fill his eyes, and he’s dragged ruthlessly back from the climax. Uselessly his hips buck against nothing, and his chest stutters with gasps. Caleb makes a show of shushing and gentling him, petting attentive hands over his corseted waist, kissing the tears on his cheeks away. The wizard knows its all useless, heartlessly not what Molly needs, and growls with sated craving as Molly paws and clings fruitlessly.

“Shhh-shhh” Caleb hisses, as Molly’s fingers pleadingly try to force the wizard to bend and kiss him. Instead Caleb seizes each dainty palm, and kisses the inside of Molly’s wrist, before gently laying the hand down.

Molly vents a broken whine.

Caleb smiles heartlessly at Molly’s neediness, and shakes his head. “What?” He purrs, crawling up to hover over Mollymauk’s face. “Did you think you were going to get something, here?”

At the echo of Caleb’s earlier words, Molly freezes underneath him. Like a pray animal just now realizing how trapped they are. Caleb allows his grin to spread until it’s something cruel, something full of thorns and torture, a mere matter of inches from Molly’s stricken face.

“You don’t get to have that.” He says.

Molly blanches underneath him, a true shudder of realization. As he gazes up into Caleb’s face with something not unlike fear. The unholy mixture of worship and terror that you would give to a despotic but irresistible deity, a force equally painful and unstoppable. The fear of a useless twig, bent almost to the breaking.

But his cock is dripping anyway.

“You are here for me.” Caleb instructs, kneeing Molly’s legs farther apart, as he crouches in the gap like a predator. “Your body belongs to me. This wet, needy cunt is mine. You are my good little whore.”

Roughly, or as roughly as Caleb every truly dares to handle Mollymauk, Caleb yanks Molly’s hips down. Holds an iron grip around Molly’s half smothered waist through the stays and starched fabric, and brings him conveniently close.

“You are not here to get off, and cum just because you want to.” The wizard growls. “You here to be my nice little cocksleeve. To open your legs, and give me pleasure, and accept my cum like a good girl. Nothing else. Ja? Understand?”

Molly nods

“Are you here to cum on my cock like greedy slut?”

Mollymauk shakes his head with a crestfallen sob.

“No?”

“No.” Molly rasps, voice choked around the edges.

“No what?”

“No Sir...”

“That’s better.” Caleb says leaning back.

The tiefling looks absolutely horrified. But he hasn’t said _no_, hasn’t said _stop_, and in their games—often by no means gentle—they’ve never needed anything more elaborate than a simple refusal. Molly might be interested in saying _no_ without meaning it, (of course he is. Molly’s young, and naive, and toothy for the extremes of feeling). But Caleb has been lacerated by that broken mirror. Said no, and screamed it, (and still didn’t get it), and he refuses to sound those dark waters again.

Caleb respects No.

Molly doesn’t say no. He whimpers, and fusses with his skirts, and pouts like a spoiled child. But doesn’t say no. And Caleb dares to continue.

Sitting back on his heels between the teifling’s legs, Caleb unbuttons his trousers. It feels slightly clumsy, and awkward, all gangly joints and reedy flesh, where Molly is soft with supple grace. But he gets it over with quickly enough, shoving his clothes down just far enough to expose the bony protrusions of his pelvis, and his own member, sensitive in the chill air.

“Of course you’re tender still...” he makes a show of reflecting, as he reaches for the oil and uncorks their well used bottle, letting it slick his fingers. “Wouldn’t want to break you, pretty bitch.”

A groan nearly chokes him, as he spreads the oil over himself, regardless of his words. He wraps a hand around himself, going from no sensation to more than enough, all at once. And he realizes with a hiss that escapes him despite his best effort to contain it, how much he’s been inadvertently denying himself in seducing Molly. How much he’s been forgetting about himself, even while he claims to be using Molly selfishly.

It strikes him forcefully now. Like prickling heat in his groin, that flashes over his whole body and ends in a core of fire through his erection. Already he’s resisting the urge to pant. To abandon all the work he’s just put into Molly, rut up into his own hand, and let himself just fucking _feel_. It’s a selfish, needy itch, that has no regard for anything but _me me me_, and wants to complain when he forces himself to peel his hand away.

“Now your cute little hole can take me like a perfect cunt,” he growls, arousal adding gravel to his voice, as he crawls back in-between Molly’s waiting thighs.

Lust nearly closes his throat, as he touches his cock to guide it in line with Molly’s entrance, trembling with unstrung desire that is fighting hard to overpower him. And Molly isn’t faring any better, his eyes look dark and hungry, lips parted as he whines for breath. He looks so wrecked and shameless with craving, and it’s absolutely unfair.

But Caleb won’t bend.

The wizard forces himself by main strength of will to slow down. To go too slow, and take too long, and make Molly endure that maddening taste on the tip of his forked tongue just a little longer. So Caleb quakes over Molly’s too tempting frame, but somehow resists it, letting his cock brush and tease so unsatisfying across Molly’s entrance.

At that hesitation Molly vents a whimper of pure anguish. His eyes look huge and worshiping, as his hips roll to try and pull Caleb’s cock in. Heat clouds on the air between them from the tiefling’s mouth, and his chest shudders through a mewl of unconcealed disappointment, and his hands cling uselessly to Caleb’s shoulders. As if Molly can somehow find a way to make this merciless human yield.

“You want this?” Caleb asks, as if it isn’t blatantly obvious. “You want me?”

“_Yes_.”

“Are you sure?” Caleb says, still hesitant. He leans down to murmur cutting words over Molly’s cheek, just too far away to kiss. “You want me to take this? You’ll only have it once. After this, you’re just a used slut. Do you really want to give this pretty virgin cunt to me?”

Molly looks like he’s about to spit fire, or dissolve into tears from frustration.

“And what if I don’t want you?” Caleb continues with his unrelenting pressure.

“Gods—fuck—sir—“

“I could do so much better than your sad little body.”

“No—_please_—“

“You won’t know how to please me,” the wizard still goads, listening to Molly choke on desperate pleas. “I’ll have to do all the work, and teach you how to fuck. And you’ll tell me that it hurts, and beg me to stop, and say I’m too much.”

“Sir—“

“Do you really think I should do that for you?” Caleb demands scathingly.

“_Please_—“ Molly chokes on a real sob, tears glittering on his lashes, his expression nakedly exposed. He clings to Caleb’s shoulders, legs trying to pinion Caleb’s hips and force him down, begging with body and soul. “Please fuck me, sir. I need you. Please, I just want you to—_Ah_—“

Molly moans, his entire body seizing, as Caleb finally presses in. The tiefling is crying on every breath, and Caleb isn’t much better, as he searches out the center of Molly’s heat. He hilts himself with a shaken groan, hips finally stilled as they kiss Molly’s, momentarily overwhelmed by Molly’s perfect body. And unable to hide it.

The tiefling feels like a furnace. All soft flesh, and yielding heat, that welcomes Caleb’s cock greedily. Caleb can feel Molly clenching, embracing the member, and already trying to roll his hips down and seek out depths were Caleb can be even deeper seated.

“There you go,” Caleb rumbles, physically unable to resist praising Molly while they’re so intimately joined. “There you go...you perfect cunt. Such a beautiful slut.”

Mollymauk mewls brokenly. It’s abundantly clear that he’s too overwhelmed to speak, lips numb and gasping, tears clumping his lashes. Caleb shushes tenderly, and bends to kiss them away, the salt tang sharp on his lips.

“That’s good,” he praises, “so good. My good little whore.”

Letting Molly fall apart and submit, Caleb drags his hips up, and sets a burning rhythm that’s as harsh as his kisses are tender. He grips Molly’s tiny little corseted waist, attentively kisses Molly’s tears, and savagely fucks the teifling into the bed.

Molly cries, sharp and sensitive, closing lovingly around Caleb’s cock. And Caleb groans right back, choked and warm into the hollow of Molly’s throat, as Molly’s addictive heat makes pleasure suffuse Caleb’s chest. The tiefling looks like filthy art, riding every thrust like he was made to take pain like nothing, to give pleasure like a goddess, to swallow Caleb whole without a moment’s hesitation.

“So good for me—” Caleb chokes out, because he can barely find the room to talk, but he has to say something.

Mollymauk is absolutely _sinful_, and Caleb needs him to know it. Needs him to ride the high, to know how perfect he is, how fucking beautiful he looks. Caleb wants to babble praise, wants to smother the teifling with it. But all he can get out is burning passion, and shaken intimacy, petting Molly’s waist, as Molly melts under the approval.

The fragile delicacy of Molly’s body beneath Caleb’s hands makes him groan, obsessed with the fucking irresistible contradiction of Mollymauk’s strength beneath that feeble exterior. The way Molly sobs like a woman, and grinds into Caleb’s savage thrusts like he’s indomitable. How his waist is slender beneath Caleb’s hands, but his whip strong body refuses to shatter under Caleb’s punishment. It’s a vision that won’t explain itself, and Caleb’s tongue is hot and hungry at the difference.

And gods Caleb is on such a short fucking fuse. It’s suddenly moving too quickly, happening too fast, all too much to handle at once. After all the winding and stretching, turning Mollymauk into a series of knots, the whole work is unraveling at once. Caleb pants with it. The rhythm getting syncopated, his muscles burning with weakness, his breath vanishing like smoke. Caleb isn’t a strong man, and he can’t keep this up for long. But the way it’s a struggle to swallow every breath, to force his hips to move, to feel his hands on Molly’s silk waist...he already knows there’s no fucking way he’ll have to...

“Come on—“ Caleb growls, snapping his hips in a way that makes Molly keen sharply. (Hit that angle again, Caleb Widogast). “Come on, Molly—“

Blind with haste, Caleb snags a hand around Mollymauk’s long over-neglected cock. Mollymauk strangles like Caleb is doing more than touching him. Like Molly is being shoved under water, and Caleb’s holding him down. Somehow his tempting form stretches out even further, freezes up beautifully. He stretches and shrinks at the same time, throat exposed with his head digging back into the sheets, as he clings to Caleb for dear life.

Vaguely Caleb knows that Mollymauk is keening for air, that the tiefling is bucking his hips in sharp hungry bursts, that Molly’s clawed hands are digging almost cruelly into the back of Caleb’s neck. But he can hardly feel it. All he feels is a sharp wound tension racketing impossibly tighter. All he feels is the way Molly’s body seizes around his cock, tense with pleasure and clutching him greedily. And the heat, the heresy, Molly’s hips under his hands, are simply overwhelming.

Caleb snaps his hips once, twice, knows he’s doomed but still fights for a third. He chokes on a whimper of the pleasure starting to peak. Tries to chase that half second edge, but feels himself split at the seams.

“N-no—“ Molly sobs, scrabbling at Caleb’s shoulders as the wizard’s driving rhythm falters. “No! Fuck, not yet—“

But Caleb is finished. Already knows it. Already feels it, as his pleasure hits it’s peak. Hears Mollymauk whimper “_please_!” But can’t give it.

He manages no more than a feeble jerk against Molly’s hips that shudders to a stop with a cracked groan. Surrenders as the climax thrusts him under, and he milks out his orgasm in tiny thrusts. Muffling his satisfaction in Molly’s neck. Vision white, voice gone, riding Molly’s beautiful body and using the teifling for the last drop of pleasure.

When he comes back to himself, its to a litany of “_no_” and “_please_” from the teifling. Molly’s openly sobbing, his hips bucking emptily, obviously chasing the edge of another stollen reward. His face crumpled with disappointment, shaking with need he’s still unable to release.

“Shhh,” Caleb tries to soothe, petting Molly’s cheek with a thumb.

“_Caleb_—“ Mollymauk wails.

“Shhh, it’s ok, I’ve got you,” he clumsily reassures, fumbling for Molly’s cock.

“Caleb—_ah_—“

“I’ve got you,” Caleb growls over Molly’s senseless euphoria, as Caleb jerks the teifling off with brutally efficient movements.

Mollymauk is hopelessly sensitized. His neglected cock is angrily flushed, heavy with need, and leaking freely. The slide of Caleb’s hand is easy, slicked by Molly’s arousal, and straightforward now. Caleb is done with the baiting, the wizard just wants Molly to fucking cum like he’ll never get the chance again, and make this whole punishing ordeal worth the pain.

“You did so _gut_!” Caleb praises, finally has the breath to pour out his approval. “Sooo good for me! So good. Such a good boy. Such a good slut. So patient and sweet for me. You were so good.”

Mollymauk mewls and reaches for Caleb’s mouth, so he gives it. Gives his mouth, and his hand, unreservedly. Growls aborted praises (“pretty whore,” “so good for me,” “such a perfect bitch”,) and swallows Molly’s pleasure cries.

The teifling is too worked up to last long, and Caleb doesn’t expect it or make him. It’s a short staccato journey to the climax. A matter of sloppy lips, demanding hands, and Molly fucking Caleb’s fist to completion.

In short order Molly rides out his pleasure. And then Caleb lets the teifling spill himself with thready whimpers. Mollymauk cums full and beautifully, ruining his petticoats with the filth of seed. And Caleb watches him do it with naked awe, the final sacrilege that ruins Molly’s princess perfection forever.

Caleb devours the teifling’s cries through the climax with a hungry tongue, scooping out behind Molly’s teeth, like the wizard wants to eat him whole. He jerks Molly through the entire peak, coaxing out Molly’s climax, just to feel the teifling’s seed fall in his fingers. Molly blindly throws an arm around Caleb’s neck, dragging him down almost deep enough to smother him, clinging with tenacious affection, and Mollymauk shamelessly kisses the wizard’s mouth like Molly wants to do it all over again.

The kiss evens out, and Molly’s climax does too. For a long tender moment their kiss slows and deepens, growing luxurious and satisfied. Combative energy relaxes into the laziness of spent lust, and the afterglow of sex, as Caleb fully lays down in Molly’s arms to let the teifling smother him.

Humming with the change, Mollymauk’s arms wind more closely around Caleb’s shoulders. There’s Molly’s fingers combing out Caleb’s hair. And that’s Mollymauk leading the kiss with an illusive tongue. And this is Caleb relaxing into Molly’s grip, pooling out with a sigh and a smile against Molly’s lips. The teifling notices the change, and lets the kiss go, drifting into the affectionate brushes of chaste lips that make Caleb’s lips burn in a different and almost fuller way.

“I love you.” Caleb whispers reverently, when he gets room to speak.

“Love you too, sweetheart,” Mollymauk says in a coo, dragging his fingers through Caleb’s hair. “Smart, sexy boy...”

“Hah, _ja_, maybe not sexy.” Caleb says. He curls his face into Molly’s neck and mumbles, “sorry I ruined your dress.”

“Darling!” Molly laughs, light and airy. It makes Caleb’s stomach flutter like a lovesick teenager. “If I’d known you’d fuck me in a dress like that...shit, I would have worn one sooner.”

Caleb colors with embarrassment.

“Gods and I thought _I_ was the one getting off on wearing a corset. Who knew you were so into fucking pretty girls within an inch of their damn life?”

“Molly...”

“And the virgin thing? Fuck, that was goddamn poetry.”

“_Bitte_, Mollymauk...” Caleb stammers, now beet red, and hiding behind his hair.

“I thought I was gonna fucking cum before you could stop me, just listening to you talk about it.” Molly continues teasing, obviously with intention now. And he drops his voice to a purr, dragging Caleb’s head down with a hand in the wizards hair, to whisper. “You were so talkative, darling, telling me how you were going to fuck my pretty, pink cunt...”

Caleb groans with mortification, covering his face with his hands.

“We definitely need to pretend I’m a woman again.” Mollymauk says, his declaration completely shameless. “Because that was a goddamn gospel, darling.”

The wizard hides his face in Molly’s shoulder, and Molly absently pets his hair.

“Maybe I should be a prostitute next time...” Mollymauk says thoughtfully, as his fingers card through Caleb’s hair. “Some cheep whore you picked up for a quick fuck...might be fun to be a two silver bitch...”

Safely hidden from Molly’s interrogating eyes, Caleb allows himself to speak with free sentimentality. “You...would be beautiful no matter what you wanted to be.”

“Sweetheart,” Molly says, in that very specifically playful voice that means he’s touched, but trying to play it off.

But Caleb can’t let it pass. It’s been burning into the base of his tongue for far too long, and he has to spit it out, or he’ll never be satisfied.

“You are beautiful Mollymauk.” He says, with an invigorated rush of _yes, the words are coming out right,_ sitting up on his elbows. “You would be a very attractive woman...or a very attractive man...because you are...beautiful when you are happy. And you will be beautiful in whatever form makes you happy...”

Mollymauk blinks up at him, with the surprise Caleb always receives for speaking so freely. As if Caleb is clueless or bad with words. But Caleb is neither of these things in this moment. With his mind quiet, and the words loaded on his tongue, finally untangled and honest.

“I want you to be happy...” he mumbles, his eyes drooping over the confession. “And that...comes with whatever body makes you so...”

“Caleb,” Molly says, eyes filled with affection, and he cups Caleb’s cheek.

The wizard leans forward for a kiss, and Molly gives it. And nothing more is said on the subject of happiness. Mollymauk just complains about his legs going to sleep, and sits up, enlisting Caleb’s aid to help get out of the corset.

But Caleb doesn’t mind the silence. He’s said what he needed to say. Finally. Molly seems to have accepted it, embracing Caleb’s careful words without argument. Caleb is satisfied. He’s unburdened himself once, and there’s no need to dwell on it.

So when they go shopping again, after the Carnival is over, and Mollymauk immediately gravitates towards the women’s fabrics, Caleb doesn’t say anything. He just smiles into his scarf, and holds onto Molly’s coat sleeve, and watches Mollymauk float on a cloud of fabrics and fashions that Caleb doesn’t hope to understand. They’re put into a box labeled Feminine Mysteries.

And now apparently a part of Mollymauk belongs there too. Something intriguing and unsolvable, that Molly pulls into the light every now and then, between his travels in gaudy leggings and baggy shirts that expose his narrow chest. Every now and then he changes shape, and employs the transformative powers of a corset’s feminizing curves. And well...Caleb just wants to see Molly happy. So he lets Molly dance the line.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are extremely welcome. <3
> 
> Though of course, I’m just happy you made it through to the end, so thanks for reading. 
> 
> Also, I really can’t draw for shit soooo...If someone wants to draw Mollymauk I would be appreciative?


End file.
